


The Quarter Quell

by SupremeLeaderRen13



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Gen, My First Work in This Fandom, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-03-22 15:59:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13767549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupremeLeaderRen13/pseuds/SupremeLeaderRen13
Summary: The 50th annual Hunger Games requires twice the amount of tributes. Haymitch Abernathy finds himself in the most dangerous game.





	1. The Forest

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! This is my first Hunger Games work, which I started for a friend. She's not getting it until it's completed, but if the response is good, I'll be posting more as I go along. Haymitch is by far my favorite Games character, and I've wanted to get into his head for a long time. Enjoy, and may the odds be ever in your favor.

On the fiftieth anniversary of the uprising that nearly tore apart our great nation, we remember that for every Capital citizen that sacrificed their life in the name of unity, two rebel soldiers died. In honor of our second quarter quell, each district will provide twice the usual number of tributes.   
The crowd in front of President Snow begins to roar as the sea of Capitol citizens swells and moves. Snow smiles winningly at the camera and hands the Quarter Quell card to a mute Avox, pausing only to shake hands with Casear Flickerman, who is beside himself with excitement. While Flickerman’s shockingly orange eyebrows waggle with frenetic energy, the president of Panem slides away with an aid, bringing an embroidered handkerchief to his mouth. He coughs once, then twice, and tucks the linen into his pocket. The screen switches to a video feed of the most recent Hunger Games victor, an absolute brute of a boy from District 2. He pounds his chest and winks his approval for the camera, lifting his fist with a “Happy Hunger Games!” The crowd screams, delirious with mirth.  
In Snow’s pocket, a corner of the handkerchief flutters in the sudden onset of confetti.  
The white material is splattered with blood.  
*****************************************************************  
“Double,” my mother breathes. “Double the amount of tributes.” She glances fearfully at my brother and me from her seat at the table, already beginning to twist her hands. I can see her count as her eyes bounce between us: One, two. Honestly, in our home of District 12, having multiple children can make you or break you. On one hand, too many mouths to feed can spell starvation. On the other, at least you’ll still have one child left when they drag the other off to die in the Games. Caleb, fourteen and ever the optimist, reaches out to grab her wrist.   
“Relax, mom. The chances that it would be one of us are still slim.” My mother gives him a watery smile and dabs at her eyes. Her shirtsleeve is threadbare—I can almost see her translucent skin through it. Caleb tugs it down on her arm, fussing over her. Not for the first time, I think mom would be okay if she lost me. Caleb is undoubtedly the better, more obedient son. And that’s without the matter of my father added in.  
“Yeah, we’ll be fine. Shame about the other…” I do the quick math in my head. “48 kids, though.” Both of them turn to glare at me from where I stand, slouching against the wall. At school, my sense of humor makes girls giggle in exasperation and my buddies snicker. Here, though, my family never seems to know whether or not I’m joking. I guess you can say it’s a bleak outlook, but my other option would be to go out in the streets of the Seam and scream until the Peacekeepers kill me.  
I know, I know. They’re both such appealing options.  
“Haymitch, honestly.” My mother stands up, although the effect is pretty much lost on me. Over the summer season I grew at least three inches, and she’s always been tiny. Judging by Caleb’s lean stature, my build has to have come from my father. In fact, I know I’ve heard people in town whisper about what a big guy he was.   
My mother pretends he never existed.  
“Sorry, mom.” I cross the room in three sides and kiss her on the cheek. “I’m going out.”  
She sighs, worry lines creasing her forehead. “Must you?”  
I flip her an easy smile, shrugging into my coat. “I’ll be back, mom. Don’t worry so much.” Behind her, Caleb gives me an annoyed look, like I’ve personally ruined his night. Probably because he knows as well as I do that the bottle will come out this evening.  
As I trot out the door, away from the television and the Quarter Quell and my small life, I can feel her watching me. She doesn’t move from the window until I look back at her.  
The streets of the Seam are dull and empty, as though the Quell news has sucked away the little bit of life that manages to hold on here. Coal dust is caked over everything, the lifeblood of our district, and its greatest killer. If you don’t die working in unsafe conditions in the mines, Black Lung will kill you just before you get to hold your grandchildren. And if you manage to avoid all that, as well as starvation?  
Well, let’s just say those people either disappear or see their bloodline end in the Games. The Capitol doesn’t like us to do well.  
I slide along the side streets more quickly now, taking care to avoid a pack of slowly patrolling Peacekeepers. The ones around here don’t bother us too much, but there’s always that one that wants to have some fun torturing an unlucky local kid. I guess I hate them more than the average citizen, because they don’t just support the Capitol—they prey on the weak. Like my mother.  
Seventeen years ago, my maternal grandparents died in some sort of horrific mining accident, terrible even by District 12 standards, leaving my mother with absolutely nothing. For the reasons I discussed earlier, people don’t tend to have a lot of extended family or older relatives to take care of them. So, like so many of the other starving girls in town, she lined up outside of a high-ranking Peacekeeper’s house, hoping to make it into his bed. And unfortunately for her, it worked.   
Even today, most people look the other way about that sort of thing, and it wasn’t that different in my parents’ generation. Everyone knows it happens, but it’s just one of those things you do to survive, like eating wild dog or signing up for tesserae. What people really can’t stand is it being brought to the forefront of our society, because it shows everyone exactly how weak we are. And that’s where my mom messed up.  
She got pregnant. With me.   
One night, when I was twelve or thirteen, I came home to find my mother sitting at the table. The fire was out. She wasn’t cooking. When I put my hand on her shoulder she jumped and looked up at me through watery red eyes. Her beautiful blonde hair was hanging limp against her neck, out of its usual prim knot.  
“Oh,” she mumbled. “It’s you.” I looked suspiciously into the glass she held in her hands and sniffed.  
“Christ, mom, is that alcohol?” I’d never seen her drink before, and now it was apparent there was a reason for that. She lifted the cup to her lips and drained it like water, something warping in her face.  
“He tried to kill me, you know.” My shocked face must have made its way through her haze, because she continued. “Your father. Your real father. Tried to beat me to death when he found out about you.” She gave a strange, hiccoughing laugh. “They’re slaves too, you know? Usually in debt up to their eyeballs, and Peacekeeping is a way to get out of that. Just living a little more comfortably than the rest of us.” She giggled again. “So he knew the Capitol wouldn’t like this. But he couldn’t do it. Then he disappeared.”  
I released her shoulder in horror and backed away. She reached out and snatched my shirt.  
“I shouldn’t exist. You shouldn’t exist. And the Capitol knows that.” She was slurring her speech now. “So why are we still here?” She’d dropped her forehead onto her arms directly after this, and we’d never spoken about it since.   
The official story is that my mother got pregnant, my father (Caleb’s father) married her quietly, and then I was born. The Peacekeeper disappeared overnight. No one looked too closely after that—asking questions is dangerous. But ever since that night I can’t get my mother’s drunk question out of my head. Why, if the Capitol knows I exist, have I been allowed to continue on here?  
Maybe the better question is, how much borrowed time do I have left?  
I rap my knuckles against a side door, in a rhythmic pattern. It swings open almost immediately, and I stumble through, startled. My assailant catches me and snickers.  
“Hey, pretty boy. Miss a step there?”  
“Very funny, Trent. Is Blanche around?” The room is spare, but altogether warmer than my house. Trent, Blanche’s 19-year-old brother, was lucky enough to score a factory job when he finished school, so he’s home a little earlier than the mine crew. He runs his hand through his stick-straight hair and sighs.  
“You see about the Quell?”  
We all did. This is an arbitrary question, but I answer anyway.  
“Yeah. Crazy, isn’t it? Forty-eight kids going to their deaths.” Forty-eight. God.  
“Forty-seven.” We both turn as Blanche trots gracefully down the stairs, smirking. “Someone has to come home, right?” She flips her long, dark braid over her shoulder and scuttles over next to me. I wrap my arm around her waist.  
“Okay, forty-seven kids, including the four that will undoubtedly be drawn from the Seam,” Trent deadpans. His eyes flicker nervously towards his little sister, who frowns.  
“They don’t always come from the Seam.”  
I snort. “Name one from the last eight years that hasn’t.” Blanche screws up her face, wrinkling her nose. She has a light spattering of freckles across her face, different from the majority of the population, which has olive skin. I love each and every one, even though she despises them.  
She hates to be wrong, and her cheeks get red as she realizes I’m correct. All the little corpses have come from the Seam—and back to it in simple pine boxes.   
“Even so, there’s no rule saying that District 12 can’t have a victor. I think the right person could do it. We just haven’t had any…well, the last two were, what, fourteen?”  
“Twelve,” Trent says quietly. We all sit there for a minute, lost in our own thoughts. This is how it always is—while the Capitol celebrates, we count our dead.  
“You’d have to be smarter than the Games,” I say, breaking the silence. “You know how when you’re watching them every year, so frustrated because you can see it for what it is—the forest instead of the trees—and you think, if they could just see what we see…”  
“So the trees are other tributes?” Blanche is smiling again, engaged with the idea. I wave my hands.  
“Career tributes, muttations, Gamemaker alterations—whatever. These kids go in and get scared, and they forget what it really is. A game. People don’t build unwinnable games. There has to be a victor. You just can’t…can’t get stuck in the trees.” I trail off uncertainly. What I’m saying isn’t exactly rebellious, but it occurs to me that I’m running my mouth in Blanche’s house, while her baby sister sleeps upstairs with her extremely nice parents…  
Blanche slides out from under my arm. “You better go.” The light outside has faded away completely and the few streetlamps that are still functioning flicker on outside the window. Trent waves goodbye and sidles into the next room.   
Blanche leans in, and I can count every freckle on her face. I did once. Forty-three freckles.  
Forty-seven dead kids. Christ.  
“No trees. Just the forest.” She presses her lips softly against mine, smiling, and sends me out the door.


	2. The Reaping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maysilee Donner prepares for Reaping Day.

Maysilee  
My bird stops singing today. Annoyed, I prod the tiny canary through the bars of its cage, ruffling the downy yellow feathers. She glares at me with one beady black eye before hopping smartly away.  
“Oh, come on, you spoiled little thing. At least one person should be happy this morning.” I huff and toss some seed at the bottom of the cage while my canary looks sadly out the window.  
“Can you blame her, Maysilee?” My sister, Acacia, traipses through the door. Despite her defense of my sullen bird, she is positively radiant in a bright yellow dress. There’s a ribbon of the same color interwoven through her intricate braided hairstyle. I stare at her, aghast.  
“Could you have tried to tone it down, even a little?” The sun streaming through the window looks positively pale in comparison to my sister’s halo of golden hair, never mind her dress. She frowns and glances at herself in my mirror.  
“Give it a rest, S’lee. It’s a Quarter Quell. If I’m going to be on T.V., I may as well look nice.” She fluffs her hair. “You should try it. Then maybe we’ll both get swept away to the Capitol by gorgeous men.”  
“You had better hope that neither of us are swept away to the Capitol today,” I say darkly. That wipes the smile off her face, but only for a minute.  
“Come on, S’lee. Our chances of being picked are low compared to…other people.” She gives a noncommittal shrug. I know what she’s feeling, that churning feeling of guilt nesting in her stomach as she considers that we’ve never had to submit our names to the reaping extra times for food. We’re merchant’s kids. Tesserae isn’t a reality for us.  
It doesn’t make it feel any better when you watch another hollow-eyed Seam child get hauled away screaming.  
I smooth down my grey dress, knowing mother would likely have a stroke if I tried going to the Reaping in my day clothes. At my collar, I affix a small gold pin and smile.  
“Is that a…”  
“Yes, it’s a mockingjay. Isn’t it neat?”  
Acacia doesn’t look like she thinks it’s neat at all. “Listen, I know you love birds, but Father will lose his mind if he sees you—“  
“Girls!” My mother’s voice carries up the stairs. She sounds cheerful, but I can hear the strain underneath. “It’s time to go. Let’s get this over with so we can eat, I’ve got supper in the oven.” My sister immediately starts out the door, but I pause to stroke my canary one more time.  
“Cheer up,” I whisper. “You’re much safer in there than I am out here.”  
*************************************************************************************  
The square, which is usually bustling with people that create a dull hum of constant noise, is nearly silent on Reaping Day. Acacia and I hug our parents, and they plant quick kisses on the tops of our heads. To what passes for wealthy in District 12, this is all a charade. Acacia leads me through the crowd, elbowing mere mortals out of her way. My sister can be a little single-minded.  
“Catlina!” Acacia is standing on her tip toes, waving to a girl some distance away from us. I try to conceal my jealousy. Catlina is one of our dearest friends, and she is drop dead gorgeous. Her white blonde hair rests in the sway of her back, framing her doll’s face and big green eyes. She smiles and hurries toward us, tripping slightly over her skirt. Her grin turns sheepish when she finally gets to us, and I can see how one of her incisors crosses slightly over the neighboring tooth. I love that smile; it’s the only part of her that isn’t perfect.  
Catlina gives us both a big hug. “Ready to have this over and done with?”  
My sister smirks. “Well, the odds are ever in our favor, and all that.” Something catches her attention and her expression turns malicious with teasing. “Ooh, Catlina, look who it is!” She elbows me hard in the side.  
“Ow,” I protest, but I turn to look all the same. Clay Mellark is leaning against the temporary fence erected for Reaping Day, smiling shyly at Catlina. It’s no secret that Clay likes her, but for some reason she’s never shown him any interest. Acacia is convinced she’s just stuck up (really, I think my sister is just bothered that Clay doesn’t like her) but I have my suspicions Catlina’s got her eye on someone else.  
Either way, Catlina is blushing furiously and I try my best to rescue her.  
“Okay, that’s enough, Acacia. Let’s go girls.” With that, I grab both of their arms and drag them towards the check in tables. The line is moving slowly enough that Acacia begins examining the crowd to pass the time.  
“Cheer up, friends. Tonight we can have a get together at our house. Mom said she’s making something good for dinner, didn’t she, S’lee?” Her eyes widen. “Maybe we can make cookies.”  
“How nice,” says a voice behind us, before we can respond, “to be able to confidently make plans for this evening.” I turn to find a girl from our class, Blanche, glaring at us. Beside her is a handsome boy from the Seam. My brain scrabbles around for his name. Something odd, I know, but I can’t think of it. The boy gives her a stern look and whispers her name sharply.  
I fumble for words while my sister stiffens beside me. Catlina’s hand is cold in mine.  
“I-I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to…” The crowd swallows them up before I can finish my sentence. I feel terrible. Blanche was right. They’re all clinging to each other like it’s the last time they’ll ever be together, and we’re planning a sleepover. Suddenly I’m disgusted with myself and just want this day to be over. I’m relieved when Acacia drops it and we make it to the front of the line. A faceless Peacekeeper takes my blood, announces my name, and shoves me roughly through the gate. He doesn’t care that I’m a merchant’s daughter—I’m an animal like everyone else here.  
My sister and Catlina rejoin me after we’ve moved through the gate. I can see the giant glass reaping ball on the stage, filled with hundreds of tiny pieces of paper. Panic flutters I’m my chest. Somewhere in that ball, my name is written on multiple slips. Catlina’s name. My sister’s name. I take one look at Acacia in her yellow dress and shiny shoes and start to pray. I’m not sure I believe in God, but I do believe that my well-meaning sister won’t last three minutes in the games.  
Please, not her.  
Microphone feedback fills the square, its shrill noise making several of the younger kids slap their hands over their ears. They surely can’t be twelve; they look so little. The District 12 escort, a tiny woman with purple hair, taps the microphone and winces.  
“Sorry about that,” she quips, not looking very sorry at all. “Welcome to the start of the 50th Annual Hunger Games!” She claps her hands together, looking around at all of us giddily. “Also the second Quarter Quell! Isn’t it exciting?” She scans her audience again, which stares back at her impassively. For a brief second, her smile droops. District 12 is considered the least desirable assignment, and I’m sure she thinks she is better than this. She manages to hoist it back up before moving on to the grand moment.  
“Now it is time to select our tributes.” She approaches the reaping ball and Catlina squeezes my hand. “Ladies first.” She makes a show of swishing her hand around the glass, really digging into the center. My sister huffs with impatience. The escort moves back to the mic.  
“And our first Quarter Quell tribute of the day is…Miss Maysilee Donner.”  
My sister utters a little scream. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion as I turn to look at her, trying to see what has frightened her so. It’s not computing yet. Catlina gives me a little shove.  
“You have to go. Go!” She jerks me into her arms and squeezes, letting go quickly. Tears are making her cheeks wet. Acacia tangles her arms around mine.  
“But…the odds…you can’t…how?” Her eyes are wide, pupils blown even in the bright sunlight. Somehow I manage to disentangle myself from my sister and step forward. The ground seems to shift beneath me, and I wonder for a second if I’m going to faint. Movement in the crowd beside me catches my eye; it’s Blanche, looking triumphant. I get the distinct feeling that she wouldn’t even mind going with me, if it meant she could kill me herself.  
It’s this thought that gets me moving toward the stage. There is no way I’m going kicking and screaming like the spoiled weakling they think I am. The crowd parts in front of me, moving away as though I were a leper. It’s funny; usually this moment is when half of the crowd relaxes, but with the Quarter Quell rules, everyone is still up for grabs. I bite back a rush of wild laughter as I mount the stairs. The mayor looks at me sorrowfully. Maybe he knows me by my father.  
I stand unmoving as the escort—what even is her name? Guess I’ll learn it now—dips her hand into the reaping ball again. Ms. Azo Hawkway, a Seam girl, joins me on the stage. No one reached for her when she left, or tried to hold her back. I wonder if she’s an only child, and imagine the pain her parents must be feeling now. Judging by her size, she can’t be more than thirteen. Not that it matters. We’re both coming home in little pine boxes.  
“Oh, double trouble. This is fun!” The escort proceeds to call out the boys. “Mr. Teak Commonworth!” I scan the crowd, which immediately backs away from Teak. He’s a hulking boy, at least six foot four, and muscular. Just as I decide that there’s no way I’ll make it five minutes with people like this in the arena, I notice that he’s crying. His lower lip is quivering, and he’s looking around desperately like someone is going to save him. Interesting.  
I realize with shock that I’m already looking at these people as competitors. The chances that I make it home are miniscule at best, but I’m just not willing to lie down and die. I’ve never been good at losing. Teak finally gives up as he makes it to the stage and takes his place, tears still running down his cheeks. Idiot. The other districts will eat him alive.  
“Now, last but not least, we will select our final male tribute for the Quarter Quell.” The crowd shifts very slightly. Everyone is almost home free. There is only one more house that will pull the shutters tonight, hiding away in their grief. They just have to make it through this last draw.  
The escort clears her throat importantly. The sun is beating down on my head, burning the back of my neck. I think of my sister in her sunshine dress, and my little yellow bird, so much safer than me in its cage back home. She unfolds the piece of paper. The name she reads takes a second to register, but when it does, dread fills my stomach.  
“Mr. Haymitch Abernathy.”  
Haymitch. That’s the name I couldn’t come up with earlier, the name belonging to the boy Blanche had been with in the crowd. She’s clinging to him now, muttering something desperately. He gently pulls her hands off his shirt and moves away. His face is neutral, but there’s a swagger to his walk that makes me suspect that’s intentional. I narrow my eyes.  
After Haymitch takes his time getting to the stage, the escort announces the four of us with the grandeur and excitement one usually reserves for weddings or births. This is the exact opposite of that kind of joy. Finally, a squad of Peacekeepers surrounds and hustles us off the platform. I can hear the upbeat, affected Capitol accent of the escort as she bids the audience goodbye.  
“Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!” In front of me, Haymitch snorts and I shoot him a sharp look as he turns around. He studies me for a minute.  
“Nice pin,” he says. I bring my hand to the mockingjay on my neckline.  
I’d forgotten I was wearing it.


	3. Advice and Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next time I post for this story, I will have finished it and will be posting multiple chapters. Scout's honor.  
> In the meantime, here's this.  
> May the odds be ever in your (my) favor.

Haymitch  
It’s a relief to enter the Justice Building and get away from the crowd, which steadily grows louder as everyone realizes they’re safe for another year. There’s a few people that watch us go mournfully, but even more spin away, headed home to enjoy a reaping day feast. See ya, suckers!  
I take a quick glance at my fellows in shit luck. The younger Seam girl hasn’t changed her expression since they called her name, although she’s walking stiffly with her arms crossed over her chest. Nobody grabbed for her when she left. I wonder if anyone will see her off. Prissy Maysilee is the biggest surprise today. She’s got her chin stuck out like she owns the place and is almost aggressive in her march. Her confidence is annoying, but it’s got nothing on Teak, who is still—still—blubbering like a baby as they escort us into separate rooms for goodbyes.  
This room is nicer than any I’ve been in. I try to relax casually on one of the chintzy armchairs, doing my best to look natural. So this is how it ends. All that fighting and surviving only to be sent packing by another kid. My luck, I’ll get knifed in the back by a squirrely twelve year old while trying to take a piss. On national television.   
The door opens and Caleb enters, supporting my mother, who is clinging to him. Despite my misgivings about my brother, I’m relieved it was me and not him. At least mom will have the good son to take care of her, one that she actually wanted. Caleb’s face is steady, but I can see the panic behind his eyes. It’s not for me—we both know that this is going to make mom head back to the bottle. I stand and pull him into a halfhearted hug.  
“It’s going to be okay. It’s just you and mom now, should mean more food.” Caleb laughs weakly and I continue. “I put back liquor in the floorboards in my room, if the withdrawal gets bad again. Keep her in her head. And for God’s sake, don’t let them get her on camera like that.”  
“So you plan on making it to the interview stage, big brother?”  
I force the corners of my mouth upwards. “Oh most definitely. “  
Mom gives a sob and I take her up in my arms. “I’m sorry, mom. It will be okay.” I can’ believe how easy it is to lie about this. Of course it won’t be okay.  
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “This is all my fault.” I know what she’s thinking of, and Caleb shoots us a curious look.  
“No, mom, don’t. It’s nobody’s fault—“ She clutches my wrist tightly.   
“I loved him, and I love you, and I don’t want you to forget that.” I’ve barely begun to process this before a Peacekeeper opens the door and orders my family out. There’s a lot of hugging, and then my family is swept away, more easily than I expected. I look at the Peacekeeper inquiringly.  
“One more visitor,” he says shortly. Seconds later, Blanche barrels through the door. I don’t know what I’m expecting—tears, maybe for her to shove her tongue down my throat—but it’s not this. She slams her body into mine and mashes her teeth against my ear.  
“You have to see the forest.”   
It seems like we had that conversation a lifetime ago, not the night before. “I don’t think it really matters at this point,” I say bleakly.   
“Of course it matters. And it needs to start out there. I will never forgive you if you let a career win. Show them what it really means to survive.” She pulls away from my ear and smiles brightly for the watchful Peacekeeper. “I love you, Haymitch Abernathy. And I know you’re going to win.” She lowers her voice again, the smile dropping away. “Forest.”  
“Blanche, baby. Forty-eight players.” The number overwhelms me again.  
“Forty-seven for you to outsmart, outlast, and kill. You are in your own category.”  
I look at my spitfire of a girlfriend with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. “And what is that?”  
She kisses me then, and it lasts for what feels like several sunlight days. I’m just considering begging for ten more minutes when she breaks the kiss and mimes putting a crown on my head.  
“Victor.”  
************************************************************************************  
Maysilee  
I’m thinking of Acacia as the train whizzes out of the station. My sister wasn’t well when I left, having collapsed with one of her “spells” as my mother likes to call them. That was my last visual of her—sunshine dress, golden hair on the Justice Building carpet, my mother’s sobs increasing in tempo. The Peacekeepers didn’t like the noise or the chaos, and ordered everyone out. I hope she’ll take care of my bird. My own gift of sunlight to my golden twin.  
The four of us are seated at a large wooden table, where there is more food laid out than I have ever seen at one time in my life. The Seam kids are devouring everything like their lives depend on it, but Haymitch has a little bit more poise than they do. He bites, chews slowly, and watches the others. I can see him thinking. Is he planning how he’ll murder me? No doubt we’ll all die, but no one wants to come in dead last. Literally.  
My reluctance to eat will probably be added to another list of reasons these people will hate me, and be quite happy to see me die. But I can’t stomach it, the delicacies and cakes, all that fruit that will surely go to waste. It looks like a prisoner’s last meal before an execution. I don’t want their charity, or to be prepared for the slaughter like a fat calf. I chew on a roll and wait for our escort to come back.   
Our escort, Lavine, enters the compartment, her high heels clacking on the floor. “Hello, hello, hello!” Her nails must be six inches long when she claps her hands together. I flinch at the sound. “It is time to meet your mentor!” She grins at us, like this is something we should be excited about. But all of us know, from years of watching the games, that there is nothing exciting about meeting the mentor.  
“Well look at you.” There’s a repeated thumping on the floor as our mentor, Nonny Stiles, enters the compartment. I do my very best not to cringe away from her. Nonny won the Games a long, long time ago. She’s got to be well into her late fifties now, and even all the money in District Twelve can’t keep the ill effects of age at bay. I’ve heard that she indulges herself in morphling, especially in the Capitol, and it shows in the hollows of her cheeks and the way she leans heavily on her cane.   
The most distinctive thing about Nonny, however, is her eyes. She’s blind in one that was put out by a tribute during her Games. Apparently she hadn’t wanted it fixed when she was crowned. It’s milky white now, and rests in its socket like a copse. When I was little, I thought she was a witch. Funnily enough, I was more scared of the normal eye. I’d watch it going back and forth on TV, and think that she could see right through the screen to where I was.   
She focuses her good eye on me.  
“If you shut your mouth, girl, you might have a chance at playing the pretty card.” My jaw cracks as I snap it shut and she smirks. “Better already.” Her gaze shuttles around the table as she lowers herself into the seat next to Haymitch. “They never give me anything to work with,” she mutters to Lavine before snapping her fingers for the coffee urn.  
“It’s funny, I was thinking the exact same thing.” Haymitch has stopped eating completely, even though this has to be the best meal he’s ever had in his life. He tosses a drumstick onto his plate. “As far as having you for a mentor,” he adds in response to the room’s raised eyebrows.  
“Ah,” Nonny smiles, and I just begin to think bitterly that I’ve found yet another person who is taken with Haymitch’s slow wit when her tiny, mottled fist connects with his jaw. She hits him with so much force that his head snaps back and hits the chair. For maybe the first time in his life, Haymitch looks stunned.   
“Nonny!” Lavine’s admonishment seems to die in the air as Nonny holds her hand up to silence her.  
“Don’t start with me, girl.” Lavine’s eyes, already pulled too wide and taut by the Capitol’s surgeons, grow even bigger, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she turns and marches smartly out of the cabin, muttering something about savages and her ill luck. Nonny watches her go with a look of grim disappointment and then turns back to us.   
“Anyone else unhappy with the state of things?” We all stare at her, completely shell-shocked by this tiny warrior of a woman. “Good.” Her attention returns to Haymitch, who is still rubbing his jaw.  
“That smug attitude will get you far in the Capitol, boy, but not with me.” She packs some ice from the bucket that’s currently housing a bottle of champagne into a napkin and hands it to him. “And for God’s sake, learn to take a punch. If you go down that easily every time, I’m not even going to try to save you.” I’m surprised his face doesn’t steam when he presses the ice pack to his jaw, which is slowly but surely starting to bruise.  
“But you are,” says a quiet voice, and I realize it’s the first time the Seam girl has spoken at all. She shoves her dank hair out of her moonlike face. “Going to try to save us,” she clarifies.  
Nonny takes a long drink of her coffee, staring at the girl thoughtfully.   
“My track record does not look good on this, but I do my utmost to help you idiots. You all just seem to lack one very important trait.”  
“What’s that?” Teak’s expression is so bright and hopeful, like there’s really one magical way to win the sponsors over, that I want to bury my face in my hands out of embarrassment for him. The Seam girl beats me to it by rolling her eyes.  
“The ability,” Nonny grins wolfishly, “to stay alive.”


End file.
